Insomnia
by A Beautiful Beast
Summary: Four of the plane's occupants sleep that night. Of the remaining two, one lies unconscious, the other never shutting his eyes for a moment.


**_Spoilers for T.R.A.C.K.S. _**

_Written because I just . . . wow. That episode was a doozy. I'm really not a fan of Skye whatsoever—and before you ask, no, I don't know why. She just kinda rubs me the wrong way. Regardless, the other members of the team love her, and therefore I have to at least care a little about her. _

_The Ward/May portion of this was written as a very close friendship, and can be read as such. It can also be read as romance, if that's what you prefer_

_FitzSimmons, however, was written as more of a romance. It can also be read as either friendship or pairing._

_The last part of this fic was written solely as a friendship or father/daughter-esque relationship. I suppose you can interpret it how you want, but I'm partial to friendship myself. _

_What I'm trying to say is that you can ship what you want. _

* * *

"I can't take this," Ward grumbles to May, pressing their foreheads together. After checking that the autopilot was steering them in the right direction, May had deigned to join Ward in his bunk. It had been a bit of a tight fit, but neither was really in the mood for being alone.

They're pressed together tightly, his body warm against hers. No arms are slung possessively over one another; that's not how they work. Their 'relationship' consists solely of sex and nothing else, but under that they're teammates too and no matter how good either of them are at hiding it, they both have feelings.

May's eyes drop closed as she releases a shallow breath. "She'll be fine," May reassures him. Ward purposefully doesn't analyse her tone. They both know the words are meaningless; they serve only as sound to fill the void.

"And if she's not?" Ward dares himself to murmur the words.

"Then Coulson will need our support to get through it," she replies matter-of-factly. "It doesn't do to dwell on the past or cry over spilt milk. All you can do is clean the mess and move on."

Ward allows a huff to flutter past his slightly parted lips. "We're gonna need a really absorbent paper towel."

There's silence for a moment before May presses her lips to his. It's not a romantic gesture, but Ward finds himself returning it, trading gentle, chaste kisses as his eyes close. They're not soft people, but right now Ward finds himself craving these light touches, needing not so much as wanting to be close to another human being.

If Ward thinks about it, there really isn't much of a spark between them. They're intimately familiar with each other in more ways than one, but this—this 'thing' between them arose from a need for companionship more than anything else.

May pulls away after a few minutes, joining their hands together. Her forehead is warm against his, wisps of her hair tickling the edge of his face. "It'll work out in the end," she says quietly. "You'll see."

He makes a small noise of agreement, blinking through the darkness. Their breaths tangle together, the gentle huffs of air constituting the only noise in the room.

Somehow, they both fall asleep.

* * *

Simmons can barely make it two steps into the hallway before she collapses with a sob, Fitz catching her awkwardly by the shoulders and pulling her to his chest. She whimpers into his shirt, her tears leaving dark spots in the fabric.

The constant cycle of _it's my fault I should've been able to do something I should've—I should've—I should've—_is unbearably addicting as it echoes through her head, an infinite loop of guilt and regret.

Fitz seems to catch on to her train of thought and tightens his grip. "It's not your fault," he murmurs shakily. "I—if anything, it's mine. She—I should have gone in there with her, maybe I could've done something to—to stop what happened," if anything, that makes it all worse because the thought of Fitz, _her _Fitz bloody and with two gunshot wounds and on the brink of death is simply too much to bear.

"S-Shut _up_, Leo," she scolds, her voice disappointingly weak. "Having Skye—" she chokes on her words. "Having Skye hurt is bad enough, b-but you?" She clings to him, squeezing the spare fabric of his shirt into balls where her fists are clenched.

"But I should've _been there_!" He protests, his own voice beginning to grow high-pitched with grief. "Just like I should've been there for you, when you—"

Jemma reaches up to slap him not-so-gently across the face. "_Stop it_," she says, and though shaky, her tone leaves no room for argument. "Just stop it! This isn't your fault!" _  
_

"It isn't your fault, either, then," Fitz returns.

Simmons ducks her face back into his shirt and they sit still for a few moments, Simmons' sobs and Fitz's shaky breaths disturbing the weighted silence that seems to cover everything in the Bus like a blanket. Finally, Fitz helps his partner to her feet.

"Come on," he says gently, obviously straining to keep his voice steady. "Let's get you cleaned up."

He leads her to the bathroom and flicks the tap on, his fingers gently massaging hers as they work to wash away the blood that Simmons knows she'll never really be rid of, bubblegum-pink suds flooding the sink. They'll face this together, as they always have. He leans against her and she leans against him, knowing that whatever happens, however this adventure plays out, they'll always have each other to count on.

* * *

He was supposed to protect her.

He was supposed to keep her safe.

Coulson isn't a drinking man, but he sure as hell could go for a few shots of whiskey right now. He can't leave, though, he can't abandon Skye. Not again. Not now, when it matters and the weight of the entire world seems to be pressing down on his shoulders, a voice in the back of his mind crying out that it's all his fault, he should've never let her out of his sight.

Why did he even think letting her into the team would be a good idea in the first place? She was reckless, impulsive and never played by the rules, everything S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't look for in a recruit. _No, she _is_ reckless. She's not dead. Not yet._

And still, he let her join his team. He let her in, let her get close. They all did, even May, who was never one to form attachments easily.

He rests his elbows on the glass, bowing his head to brush against the cool surface. His eyes unwillingly rake over Skye's still form, coming to rest on her bloodied abdomen. It had been two shots, he remembered. Two bullets. Surely only one was necessary to incapacitate her?

Irrational anger suddenly floods his mind. Anger at Fitz for allowing her to go in alone, anger at himself for allowing her be on the Bus at all, anger at Skye herself for simply existing, for being alive to worm her way into his heart and break it only weeks later.

_It shouldn't be like this, _he thinks.

_Life shouldn't be so fragile. _

He knows that, should she die, they can bring her back the same way they did him. If he pleads, begs, does everything in his power to convince Fury that she's worth it, maybe they'll save her, too._  
_

Is _that_—is _Tahiti_ worth it, though? She would never forgive him, if she found out; he'll never forgive Fury for what he did.

There isn't much that can reduce Coulson to begging. He's a kind man, sure, when he wants to be, but he's also a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. He knows hundreds of different types of tortures and how to withstand them without making a peep, but the agony of having his mind invaded was like nothing he'd ever felt.

He should sleep. He's not doing anything productive by standing over Skye. He's not a guardian angel that can fix everything with the blink of an eye. He can't bear to leave, though, so instead he pulls up a chair and turns it backward, folding his arms over the back and nestling his chin into the crook of his elbow, eyes focused on the unearthly blue light that surrounds Skye.

The world blurs suddenly, and he registers that he's starting to tear up.

_She'll survive_, he insists to himself. He'll make sure of that.

_But at what cost? _His mind asks.

For once, he doesn't have an answer.


End file.
